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OTHER  BOOKS  BY  DR.  EATON 

ACADIAN  LEGENDS  AND  LYRICS 

THE  HEART  OF  THE  CREEDS,  Historical 

Religion   in   the   Light    of    Modern 

Thought 
THE   CHURCH   OF   ENGLAND    IN    NOVA 

SCOTIA  AND  THE  TORY  CLERGY  OF 

THE  REVOLUTION 
TALES  OF  A  GARRISON  TOWN  (with    C. 

L.  Betts) 

POEMS  OF  THE  CHRISTIAN  YEAR 
POEMS  IN  NOTABLE  ANTHOLOGIES 
RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  GEORGIA  LOYALIST, 

Edited  and  Introduced 
EDUCATIONAL    WORKS,     Compiled     and 

Edited 
FAMILY  HISTORICAL  MONOGRAPHS 


ACADIAN    BALLADS 

AND 

DE  SOTO'S  LAST  DREAM 


ACADIAN 
BALLADS 

AND 

DE  SOTO'S  LAST  DREAM 

BY 

ARTHUR  WENTWORTH 
EATON 


NEW  YORK 

THOMAS  WHITTAKER 


Copyright,  1905 

By  ARTHUR  WENTWORTH  HAMILTON  EATON 
All  Rights  Reserved 

Published  November,  1905 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 
WILLIAM  EATON 

AND 

ANNA  AUGUSTA  WILLOUGHBY 
HAMILTON  EATON 


p. 

3 

H 

Ft. 


PREFACE 

IN  1710  the  ancient  poetical  name  Acadia  given 
by  noble  French  explorers  to  the  beautiful 
Province  of  Nova  Scotia  was  changed,  but  for 
purposes  of  poetry  the  name  will  forever  endure. 
The  history  of  the  Province  covers  more  than  a 
century  of  intermittent  French  rule  and  nearly  two 
centuries  of  continuous  English  rule  and  in  both 
periods  are  to  be  found  remarkable  events  and 
notable  women  and  men.  Some  of  the  more  strik- 
ing of  these  events  and  the  more  notable  of  these 
men  and  women  are  commemorated  in  the  follow- 
ing poems.  The  Tory  ballads  touch  one  of  the 
most  picturesque  events  in  Anglo  Saxon  history,  the 
migration  of  some  thirty  thousand  of  the  people  of 
what  are  now  leading  states  of  the  American  Union 
to  the  loyal  "Province  beside  the  Sea."  Among 
these  were  almost  the  whole  of  the  aristocracy  of 
Boston  and  a  large  number  of  the  proudest  people 
ix 


PREFACE 

of  New  York.  Many  of  the  exiled  Tories  settled 
finally  in  the  province  of  New  Brunswick,  not  a  few 
embarked  for  England,  some  when  peace  was  re- 
stored came  back  to  their  old  homes  in  New  Eng- 
land or  New  York,  but  a  large  number  staid  in 
Nova  Scotia  and  founded  important  families  in 
Halifax  and  other,  smaller,  towns.  The  ballad 
entitled  "Puritan  Planters"  commemorates  the 
advent  to  Acadia  in  1760  and  '61  of  some  thousands 
of  New  England  people,  who  thus  came  into  pos- 
session of  the  valuable  lands  of  the  expatriated 
French. 

In  this  volume,  in  point  of  time  the  French  lyrics 
should  have  come  first;  it  has  seemed  best,  how- 
ever, to  reject  the  chronological  order  and  give 
the  English  ballads  first.  Wherever  the  poems, 
either  of  the  French  or  the  English  period,  are  his- 
torical the  proper  dates  have  been  given.  Through- 
out the  volume  will  be  found,  it  is  hoped,  somewhat 
of  the  vivid  local  colour  of  the  famed  Acadian 
Land. 

November,  1905 


CONTENTS 

PART  I 

PAGE 

PURITAN  PLANTERS 3 

THE  ARRIVAL  OF  HOWE'S  FLEET 9 

A  BALLAD  OF  THE  TORIES 15 

LADY  WENTWORTH 21 

OLD  WHARVES 26 

ST.  PAUL'S  CHURCH 29 

THE  COTTAGE 34 

ORCHARDS  IN  BLOOM 37 

ATLANTIC  MISTS 39 

IMPRESSIONS 41 

THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLOWERS 42 

PURPLE  ASTERS 46 

ALICE  HAMILTON 48 

JOSEPHINE , 51 

DEATH  IN  ACADIA 53 

A  SAINT 57 

xi 


CONTENTS 

PART   II 

PAGE 

THE  LEGEND  OF  GLOOSCAP 61 

L'!LE  SAINTE  CROIX 65 

POUTRINCOURT'S  RETURN  TO  PORT  ROYAL..  68 

L'ORDRE  DE  BON  TEMPS 72 

THE  BAPTISM  OF  MEMBERTOU 76 

LA  TOUR  AND  BIENCOURT 80 

MADAME  LA  TOUR 83 

THE  NAMING  OF  THE  GASPEREAU 86 

THE  GHOSTS  OF  THE  ACADIANS 91 

THE    PHANTOM   LIGHT   OF   THE    BAIE   DES 

CHALEURS 97 

DE  SOTO'S  LAST  DREAM 100 

PORT  ROYAL 105 

GRAND  PRE 106 

CHEBUCTO  BAY 107 


xn 


PARTI 


PURITAN  PLANTERS 

1760 

THE  rocky  slopes  for  emerald  had  changed 
their  garb  of  gray 
When  the  vessels  from  Connecticut  came  sailing 

up  the  Bay, 
There  were  diamonds  on  every  wave  that  drew  the 

strangers  on, 

And  bands  of  sapphire  mist  about  the  brows  of 
Blomidon. 

Five  years  in  desolation  the  Acadian  land  had  lain, 

Five  golden  harvest  moons  had  wooed  the  fallow 
fields  in  vain, 

Five  times  the  winter  snows  had  slept  and  summer 
sunsets  smiled 

On  lonely  clumps  of  willows,  and  fruit  trees  grow- 
ing wild. 


ACADIAN  BALLADS 

There  was  silence  in  the  forest  and  along  the  Minas 

shore, 

And  not  a  habitation  from  Canard  to  Beau  Sejour, 
But  many  a  blackened  rafter  and  many  a  broken 

wall 
Told  the  story  of  Acadia's  prosperity  and  fall; 

And  even  in  Nature's  gladness,  in  the  matchless 

month  of  June, 
When  every  day  she  swept  her  harp  and  found  the 

strings  in  tune, 
The  land  seemed  calling  wildly  for  its  owners  far 

away, 
The  exiles  scattered  on  the  coast,  from  Maine  to 

Charleston  Bay, 

Where  with  many  bitter  longings  for  their  fair  homes 
and  their  dead, 

They  bowed  their  heads  in  anguish  and  would  not 
be  comforted, 

And  like  the  Jewish  exiles,  long  ago,  beyond  the  sea, 

Refused  to  sing  the  songs  of  home,  in  their  cap- 
tivity. 

But  the  simple  Norman  peasant-folk  shall  till  the 
land  no  more, 


PURITAN  PLANTERS 

For  the  vessels  from  Connecticut  have  anchored  by 
the  shore, 

And  many  a  sturdy  Puritan,  his  mind  with  Scrip- 
ture stored, 

Rejoices  he  has  found  at  last,  "the  garden  of  the 
Lord." 

There  are  families  from  Tolland,  from  Killing- 
worth  and  Lyme, 

Gentle  mothers,  tender  maidens,  and  strong  men 
in  their  prime, 

There  are  lovers  who  have  plighted  their  vows  in 
Coventry, 

And  sweet,  confiding  children,  born  in  Newport  by 
the  sea. 

They  come  as  came  the  Hebrews  into  their  prom- 
ised land, 

Not  as  to  rough  New  England  shores  came  first  the 
Pilgrim  band; 

The  Minas  fields  were  fruitful,  and  the  Gaspereau 
had  borne 

To  seaward  many  a  vessel  with  its  freight  of  yellow 
corn. 

They  come  with  hearts  as  true  as  are  their  manners 
blunt  and  cold, 


ACADIAN  BALLADS 

To  found  a  race  of  noblemen  of  Calvinistic  mould, 
A  race  of  earnest  people  whom  the  coming  years 

shall  teach 
The  broader  ways  of  knowledge,  and  the  gentler 

forms  of  speech. 

They  come  as  Puritans,  but  who  shall  say  their 

hearts  are  blind 
To  the  subtle  charms  of  nature,  and  the  love  of 

humankind  ? 
The  rigorous  New  England  laws  have  shaped  their 

thought,  'tis  true, 
But  human  laws  can  never  wholly  Heaven's  work 

undo, 

And  tears  fall  fast  from  many  an  eye,  long  time 

unused  to  weep, 
For  o'er  the  fields  lie  whitening  the  bones  of  cows 

and  sheep, 
The  faithful  cows  that  used  to  feed  upon  the  broad 

Grand  Pre, 
And  with  their  tinkling  bells  come  slowly  home  at 

close  of  day. 

And  where  the  Acadian  village  stood,  its  roofs  o'er- 
grown  with  moss, 

6 


PURITAN  PLANTERS 

And  the  simple  wooden  chapel,  with  its  altar  and 

its  cross, 
And  where  the  forge  of  Basil  sent  its  sparks  toward 

the  sky, 
The  purple  thistle  blossoms,  and  the  pink  fireweed 

grows  high. 

********* 
The  broken  dykes  have  been  rebuilt,  a  century 

and  more, 
The  cornfields  stretch  their  furrows  from  Canard 

to  Beau  Sejour, 
Five  generations  have  been  reared  beside  the  broad 

Grand  Pre, 
Since  the  vessels  from  Connecticut  came  sailing  up 

the  Bay. 

And  now  across  the  meadows,  while  the  farmers 

reap  and  sow, 
The   engine   shrieks   its   discords   to   the   hills   of 

Gaspereau, 

And  ever  onward  to  the  sea  the  restless  Fundy  tide 
Bears  playful  pleasure  yachts  and  busy  trade  ships, 

side  by  side. 

And  the  Puritan  has  yielded  to  the  softening  touch 
of  time, 


ACADIAN  BALLADS 

Like  him  who  still  content  remained  in  Killing- 
worth  and  Lyme, 

And  graceful  homes  of  prosperous  men  make  all 
the  landscape  fair, 

And  mellow  creeds  and  ways  of  life  are  rooted 
everywhere. 

And  churches  nestle  lovingly  on  many  a  glad  hill- 
side, 

And  holy  bells  ring  out  their  music  in  the  eventide; 

But  here  and  there  on  untilled  ground,  apart  from 
glebe  or  town, 

Some  lone,  surviving  apple  tree  stands  blossomless 
and  brown, 

And  many  a  traveller  has  found  in  summer,  as  he 

strayed, 
Some  long-forgotten  cellar  in  the  deepest  thicket's 

shade, 
And  clumps  of  willows  by  the  dykes,  sweet-scented, 

fair,  and  green, 
That  seemed  to  tell  again  the  story  of  Evangeline. 


THE  ARRIVAL  OF  HOWE'S  FLEET 
1776 

THE  fogs  have  lifted  from   the  wharves,  the 
harbour's  course  is  clear, 
And  groups  of  men  with  eager  eyes  crowd  each 

projecting  pier; 
Some  climb  the  grassy  slope  that  lies  above  the 

wooden  town, 

Some  from  the  rambling  roofs  that  shade  the  un- 
paved  streets  look  down, 

And  all  are  gazing  oceanward  beyond  the  islands 

green, 
Where,  specks  of  white  against  the  blue,  a  hundred 

sail  are  seen; 
The  fishermen  in  suburbs  lone,  from  cabins  by  the 

shore 
Look  out  in  fear  lest  France  has  come  to  claim  the 

land  once  more. 

A  hundred  sail,  and  on  they  move  across  the  harbour 
bar, 


ACADIAN  BALLADS 

And  every  watcher  strains  his  eyes  to  see  what  sort 

they  are, — 
But  as  the  squadron  closer  comes  fear  changes  to 

surprise, 
For  at  the  mast  of  every  ship  the  flag  of  England 

flies. 

"The  Tory  fleet!"  the  word  goes  round,  the  "fleet 

from  Boston  Bay! 
What   news,   good   friends  of  Howe's  command, 

bring  you  this  bleak  March  day  ? 
Have  you  overcome  the  rebel  mob  and  shown  them 

England's  might  ? 
And  shall  we  make  great  bonfires  blaze  about  the 

town  to-night  ? " 

"No,  friendly  Sirs  of  Halifax,  give  us  a  pitying 

hand, 
We  come  as  routed  troops,  and  not   as  men  in 

proud  command, 
The  raw  recruits  have  more  than   matched  our 

veteran  force,  and  we 
Have  given  the  siege  of  Boston  up  and  brought  our 

ships  to  sea." 

And  now  the  vessels  come  to  port,  and  Howe  him- 
self is  seen 

10 


THE  ARRIVAL  OF  HOWE'S  FLEET 

Among  red-tunicked  officers  of  land  troops  and 

marine, 
And   sailors,  soon,  with  rolling  gait,  and   soldiers 

trim  and  neat, 
March  up  the  wharves  that  fringe  the  town,  and 

fill  each  narrow  street. 

At  last  a  myriad  canvas  tents  are  pitched  on  the 

Parade, 
'Neath  which,   below  the   silent  stars,   a   myriad 

heads  are  laid, 
For  Howe  has  brought,  beside  the  troops,  from  the 

long  siege  away, 
The  gentry  of  the  capital  of  Massachusetts  Bay. 

What  change  for  men  who  long  have  housed   in 

city  mansions  fair, 
What  grief  to  find  themselves  at  once  of  all  their 

goods  stripped  bare; 

But  O  the  gentle  women  reared  in  luxury  and  pride, 
And  O  the  homesick  little  ones,  that  all  the  voyage 

have  cried! 

From  Tremont,  Milk,  and  Marlborough  Streets 
these  wanderers  have  fled, 

From  stately  homes  near  Beacon  hill,  closed  sud- 
denly in  dread, 

ii 


ACADIAN  BALLADS 

From  Cambridge  old,  and  Roxbury,  and  Milton, 

here  they  meet, 
This    multitude   compelled   to   ask   protection   of 

the  fleet. 

The  Brattles  and  the  Brinleys  and  the  Olivers  are 

here, 
The   Gores    and    Greens    and    Sewalls,    Belcher, 

Caner,  and  Lechmere, 
The  Royals  and  the  Vassalls — can  it  be  such  men 

as  they 
Have    been    driven   to   hopeless   exile   from   their 

homes  on  Boston  Bay  ? 

Aye,  the  mansions  are  all  empty  near  the  base  of 

Beacon  Hill, 

Or  enshrine  plebeian  strangers,  and  the  enemy  at  will 
In  the  Province  House  and  churches  everlastingly 

reviles 
The    haughty    Tory    gentry    and    their    prophet, 

Mather  Byles. 

From  what  superior  walks  of  life  these  courtly  men 
have  come, 

In  council  room,  at  bench  or  bar,  and  in  the  inces- 
sant hum 

Of  Boston's  richest  trade-marts  they  have  long 
been  used  to  rule, 

12 


THE  ARRIVAL  OF  HOWE'S  FLEET 

Their  minds  and  manners  moulded  in  the  most 
punctilious  school. 

In  powdered  wigs  and  waistcoats  fine  and  swords 

that  dangled  free 

They  exercised  a  princely  sort  of  hospitality, 
Their  homes  with  heavy  silken  stuffs  and  orient 

woods  were  fair, 
And  spicy  perfumes  of  the  east  lent  sweetness  to  the 

air. 

These  ladies,  too,  the  mistresses  of  every  art  re- 
fined, 

With  elegance  of  form  and  rarer  elegance  of  mind, 

Their  petticoats  of  rich  brocade,  their  jewels  and 
point  lace 

Scarce  emphasized  their  breeding  high  or  added  to 
their  grace. 

No  wonder,  then,  these  exiles  feel  the  present  but  a 

dream 
That  certainly  will  vanish,  as  goes  by  the  turbid 

stream; 
But  the  past  will  never  come  again,  whatever  their 

fate  may  prove, 
They  have  said  good  bye  forever  to  the  homes  and 

haunts  they  love. 

'3 


ACADIAN  BALLADS 

The  future  of  these  gentlefolk  encamped  beside 

the  sea, 

Can  oracle  or  sibyl  strange  divine  what  it  shall  be  ? 
Where  shall  these  high-born  women  find  homes 

fit  their  charms  to  hold  ? 
Not  surely  in  this  little  town  less  than  three  decades 

old. 

Yes,  some  of  them  in  Halifax  shall  tarry  till  they 

die, 

The  men  patrician-souled  and  proud  as  a  nobility, 
The  women  gracious-mannered,  yet   exclusive  as 

of  yore, 
With  aversion  for  republics,  loving  England  more 

and  more. 

Scant  praise  received  these  Loyalists  from  those 

they  left  behind, 
Perhaps  their  minds  were  prejudiced,  perhaps  their 

eyes  were  blind, 
But,  right  or  wrong,  they  suffered,  and  to-day  men 

yield  the  claim 
That  not  alone  the  "Patriots"  deserved  the  patriot 

name. 


A  BALLAD  OF  THE  TORIES 
1784 

THE  Tories  are  embarking  for  the  Province 
by  the  Sea, 
They  have  left  their  homes  on  Broadway  and  beside 

the  Battery, 

The  mansions  are  deserted  that  overlook  the  Bow- 
ling Green, 

And  in  the  highways  to  the  wharves  unwonted 
sights  are  seen. 

First,  matrons  fair  with  powdered  hair  and  haughty 
looks  go  by, 

Then  gentle  maids,  whose  colour  shames  the  rose- 
tints  in  the  sky, 

Then  fine  Colonial  gentlemen,  and  boys  of  manly 
grace,— 

But  sorrow  unmistakeable  appears  in  every  face. 

There  are  Barclays  and  De  Lanceys,  there  are 
Purdys,  half  a  score, 

15 


ACADIAN  BALLADS 

There    are    Livingstons    and    Ludlows,    Bayards, 

Thornes,  and  many  more, 
There  are  Rapaljes  and  Remsens,  Wilmots,  Wig- 

ginses,  and  Wards, — 
Judges,  councillors,  and  farmers,  doctors,  lawyers, 

priests,  and  bards. 

They  are  pressing  to  the  water  on  the  city's  eastern 

side, 
They  are  stepping  up  the  planks  that  reach  the 

ships  that  there  are  tied, 
They  are  waving  to  their  friends  on  shore  most 

piteous  farewells, 
They  are  weeping  in  their  cabins  as  weep  prisoners 

in  their  cells. 

The  guns  of  war  are  silent  that  have  boomed  for 

seven  years, 
The  British  have  been  routed,  and  there  seems  no 

cause  for  tears, 
But  the  Barclays  and  De  Lanceys  are  as  sad  as  sad 

can  be, 
And  their  ships  are  in  the  harbour  for  the  Province 

by  the  Sea. 

Is  it  prejudice  that  sways  them,  are  they  blind  to 
all  the  wrong 

16 


A  BALLAD  OF  THE  TORIES 

Their  compatriots  have  suffered  from  the  English 

rule  so  long? 
Is  it  cowardly  submissiveness  that  makes  these 

Tories  hate 
The  newly  formed  Republic  and  its  officers  of 

state  ? 

Are  the  Ludlows  and  the  Robinsons  so  sunk  in 

selfishness 
That  they  have  no  souls  to  sympathize  with  common 

men's  distress; 
Are  they  willing  that  the  people  should  be  slaves 

the  country  o'er 
If  their  own  exclusive  privilege  is  only  kept  secure  ? 

There  is  surely  something  better  back  of  protest  such 

as  theirs, 
There  is  good  stout-hearted   loyalty   below  such 

tears  and  prayers, 
They  have  loved  the  flag  of  England  and  the  throne 

so  firm  and  strong, 
Though  they  know  King  George  is  narrow  and 

his  ministers  are  wrong, 

And  they  cannot  give  allegiance  to  a  governmental 
plan 

17 


ACADIAN  BALLADS 

Which  concedes  the  right  of  sovereign  to  the  very 

lowest  man, 
That  makes  friends  with  all  fanatics  who  shout 

loud  for  liberty, 
But   has   no  meed  for  Loyalists   but  shame   and 

obloquy. 

So  the  Tories  are  embarking,  such  a  sad,  distress- 
ful band, 

On  the  rugged  shore  of  Shelburne,  in  the  old 
Acadian  land, 

They  will  build  another  city  and  contented  try  to 
be, 

Though  they  love  their  homes  on  Broadway  and 
beside  the  Battery. 

There  the  spirit  of  rebellion  will  not  show  its  hate- 
ful head, 

There  to  English  institutions  people  always  will  be 
wed, 

There,  though  present  ills  may  irritate,  men's 
hearts  will  never  lag 

In  loyal  love  for  England  and  devotion  to  her  flag. 

But  that  rugged  shore  of  Shelburne  will  be  mourn- 
ful many  a  day 

18 


A  BALLAD  OF  THE  TORIES 

With  the  sighing  of  the  pilgrims  who  are  sailing 

fast  away 
From  the  homes  their  love  has  fashioned,  from 

the  church  their  faith  has  reared, 
And    the    churchyard    by    a    thousand    hallowed 

memories  endeared. 

Though  the  skies  that  overarch  them  have  the  same 
delightful  blue, 

Though  the  friends  they  value  highest  like  them- 
selves are  exiles  too, 

Though  good  Inglis,  who  so  stoutly  for  the  King 
has  always  prayed, 

Will  be  with  them  soon  as  Bishop,  to  help  keep  them 
undismayed, 

They  will   mourn   that   England's   children   such 

hostility  could  show 
To  the  mother  who  had  reared  them,  and  their 

spirits  will  sink  low 
At  the  world's   degeneration,   its   distrust  of  all 

things  old, 
At  the  shallow  views  that  skeptics  in  these  later 

ages  hold. 

Yield  them  reverence,  not  dishonour,  this  once 
execrated  band, 

19 


ACADIAN  BALLADS 

It  was   principle  that  made  them  give   up  their 

native  land, 
They  loved  their  homes  on   Broadway,  but  they 

loved  the  old  flag  more, 
And  they  chose  the  lot  of  exiles  on  a  rugged  foreign 

shore. 

So  the  mansions  are  deserted  that  overlook  the 

Bowling  Green 
And  in  Manhattan's  thoroughfares  the  owners  are 

not  seen; 
But  in  those  streets  and  houses  better   men   will 

never  be 
Than  the  Tories  who  have  started  for  the  Province 

by  the  Sea. 


20 


LADY  WENTWORTH 

SIR  JOHN  WAS  CREATED  A  BARONET  IN   1795 

A  WOMAN  of  fashion  and  wit  and  grace, 
The  Governor's  wife  in  Portsmouth  town, 
From  Copley's  canvas  still  looks  down 
Beautiful  Frances  Wentworth's  face. 

When  the  Tories  were  shorn  of  rank  and  power 
In  somebody's  ship  she  sailed  away, 
And  England's  capital  many  a  day 
Enjoyed  the  fair  New  England  flower. 

Governor  Wentworth,  rich  and  great, 
Had  stood  so  staunch  for  the  British  crown 
That  England  presently  set  him  down 
With  a  miniature  court,  in  semi-state, 

In  the  loyal  province  of  Acadie, 
A  land  where  the  British  flag  still  flew 
And  British  bugles  daily  blew, 
A  governor  once  again  to  be. 

21 


ACADIAN  BALLADS 

Hither  the  beautiful  Frances  came 
With  her  worshipful  lord,  and  soon  her  grace 
Made  grim  old  Government  House  a  place 
Of  splendor  and  pomp  and  brilliant  fame. 


And  Governor  Wentworth  prouder  grew, 
And  the  King  as  a  mark  of  his  pleasure  gave 
This  subject  of  his,  so  leal  and  brave, 
A  baronet's  title,  bright  and  new. 

When  the  honour  was  known  in  Halifax 
Congratulations  by  the  score 
Through  the  daily  post  began  to  pour, 
Magnificent  in  sealing-wax, 

And  Governor  John  to  his  lady  spoke, 

And  they  ordered  a  drawing-room  held  one  day, 

Late  in  the  blossomy  month  of  May, 

For  the  Haligonian  gentlefolk. 

All  the  most  notable  men  of  the  town, 
Judges,  and  councillors  twelve,  were  there, 
The  Council's  president  came  in  a  chair, 
With  lace  on  his  suit  of  velvet  brown. 

22 


LADY  WENTWORTH 

Greatest  of  all  was  the  Duke  of  Kent, 
Who  rode  with  an  aid  at  his  royal  side, 
Colonels  and  captains,  too,  the  pride 
Of  the  army  and  navy  thither  went. 


Blowers  and  Brinley  and  Brenton  and  Strange 
Drove  to  the  door  with  their  wives  and  their  wij 
Some  in  chariots,  some  in  gigs, 
Or  walked,  perhaps,  for  a  healthful  change. 

Cochran  and  Francklin  and  Stewart  vied 
With  Wallace  and  Lawson,  so  they  say, 
In  eloquent  tributes  all  that  day 
To  the  florid  governor's  family  pride. 

Wonderful  costumes  were  there,  I  ween, 
Satin  waistcoats  of  every  hue, 
Carnation  and  yellow,  mauve  and  blue, 
Coats  of  the  richest  bottle  green, 

Dresses  of  lutestring  and  brocade 
Falling  from  bodices  long  and  slim, 
Point-lace  handkerchiefs,  fastened  prim, 
Powdered  hair  over  cushions  laid. 

23 


ACADIAN  BALLADS 

Sweet  was  the  air  as  it  well  could  be, 
Attar  of  rose  and  amber  blent 
With  lavender  and  the  entrancing  scent 
From  Indian  jars  of  pot-pourri. 

Masculine  tongues  by  wine  were  freed, 
Good  souchong  by  the  dames  was  taken, 
Gentlemen  snuffed,  if  I'm  not  mistaken, 
Brilliant  the  levee  was  indeed. 


Lighting  the  whole  like  a  sun  or  a  star 

Was  beautiful  Lady  Wentworth's  face, 

And  away  from  the  spot  where  she  stood  in  grace 

Nobody  lingered  long  or  far. 

The  Prince  spoke  low  in  her  exquisite  ear, 
Inglis,  the  bishop,  touched  his  lips 
In  a  dignified  way  to  her  finger  tips, 
And  the  other  people  all  pressed  near. 

When  the  levee  was  over  the  verdict  stood 
That  the  Halifax  Wentworths  were  just  as  fine 
As  their  kin  of  the  old  Fitzwilliam  line, 
Or  the  Rockingham  branch,  of  noble  blood. 

24 


LADY  WENTWORTH 

The  Baronet's  wife  ere  long  became 
Lady  in  waiting  to  Charlotte,  the  Queen, 
And  fairer  face  or  statelier  mien 
England's  court  can  scarcely  claim, 

But  Lady  Wentworth,  as  all  agree, 
Won  for  her  charms  the  highest  praise 
In  those  dear,  far-off  Colonial  days 
At  Government  House  in  Acadie. 


OLD  WHARVES 

HALF  a  century  ago, 
On  the  tides  that  shoreward  swept, 
Merchant  vessels,  swift  or  slow, 
To  the  harbour  leapt  or  crept. 

From  the  fertile  Indian  isles 

In  hot  Southern  seas  they  came, 

Over  Ocean's  countless  miles, 
With  red  sunset  fires  aflame. 

Fruited  cargoes  here  they  brought, 

Guava,  ginger,  fig,  and  prune, 
Rice  and  spice,  and  rare  birds  caught 

In  the  sluggish  tropic  noon. 

These  old  wharves  re-echoed  then 
All  the  sounds  of  seaport  trade, 

Pulleys  plied  by  strong-armed  men, 
Noisy  anchors  cast  and  weighed; 

26 


OLD  WHARVES 

Crashing,  carrying,  cheering  loud, 
Wild  discordant  bawl  and  brawl, 

Black  and  white,  a  motley  crowd — 
Ah,  but  how  men  loved  it  all! 


And  the  masts  that  hedged  the  town, 
How  they  creaked  in  every  breeze, 

Standing  bold  and  bare  and  brown, 
Like  unnumbered  forest  trees. 

Proud  old  wharves,  so  silent  now, 
Haughtier  in  your  grim  decay 

Than  when  many  a  princely  prow 
Sought  you  from  the  lower  bay, 

Symbols  of  dead  dreams  are  ye, 
Figures  of  the  phantom  piers 

Where  we  made  so  buoyantly 
Anchor  in  our  earlier  years. 

Yet  the  barren  tides  that  creep 
Up  the  harbour  night  and  morn, 

Plunge  and  plash  and  laugh  and  leap 
Round  your  bases  old  and  worn, 


ACADIAN  BALLADS 

Nothing  now  of  sadness  bear, 

For  our  barks  have  found  since  youth 
Roomier  wharves,  in  harbours  where 

They  may  anchor  fast  to  truth, 

Till  Time's  petty  traffic  done, 
All  the  bawl  and  brawl  and  strife, 

Happier  voyages  are  begun 
To  the  shores  of  endless  life. 


ST.  PAUL'S  CHURCH 

BUILT  IN  1750 

TIMBERED  in  times  when  men  built  strong, 
With  a  tower  of  wood  grown  gray, 
The  frame  of  it  old,  the  heart  still  young, 
It  has  stood  for  many  a  day. 

Winter  and  summer  its  bells  ring  out, 
Jangle  and  clang  and  churn, 
Music  set  for  a  merry  rout, 
With  strains  of  a  sweet  nocturne. 

The  citadel  glacis,  smooth  and  steep, 
And  the  granite  fort  on  high 
With  its  dangerous  moat  that  none  may  leap, 
And  the  rambling  barracks  nigh, 

Seem  as  if  made  to  serve  its  need, 

To  watch  at  its  gates  like  friends, 

As  if  barrack  and  moat,  and  church  and  creed 

Pursued  the  same  great  ends. 

29 


ACADIAN  BALLADS 

Tablets  cover  its  ancient  walls 
To  men  of  virtues  rare, 
And  hatchments  as  in  English  halls, 
In  gules  and  gold,  are  there, 


And  the  same  great  throngs  go  in  and  out 
As  have  gone  a  hundred  years, 
Gentle  and  simple — dark  with  doubt, 
Oppressed  by  saintly  fears, 

Or  with  pride  so  pent  in  their  narrow  souls 
That  they  have  no  power  to  see 
That  the  favour  of  God  to  the  meek  is  lent, 
Though  mean  their  lot  may  be. 

What  thrilling  tales  the  church  might  tell, 
What  welcome  sights  reveal, 
If  a  wizard's  word  could  break  the  spell 
That  now  its  lips  enseal, 

It  would  picture  the  days  when  Breynton  stood 

At  the  top  of  its  pulpit  stair, 

Gentle  and  generous,  brave  and  good, 

A  stalwart  man  of  prayer, 

30 


ST.  PAUL'S  CHURCH 

It  would  tell  of  the  Tories  from  Boston  Bay 

Who  camped  its  walls  beside, 

Or  flew  to  its  friendly  arms  to  pray 

At  morn  or  eventide, 


Of  women  for  fashion's  sake  who  came 
To  its  portals  dark,  in  chairs, 
Of  ponderous  men  with  transient  fame 
Who  patronized  its  prayers, 

Of  the  Loyalist  Wentworth  as  he  made 
Response  to  the  service  free, 
Of  Lady  Frances  in  silk  arrayed, 
And  their  heir,  young  Charles-Mary, 

Of  soldier-governors  proud,  niched  high 
In  the  walls  of  English  fame, 
Who  voiced  in  its  shade  the  human  cry: 
"Forgive,  O  Lord,  my  shame!" 

It  would  point  to  the  names  of  those  that  rest 
'Neath  chancel  and  aisle  and  pew, 
De  Seitz  with  the  orange  on  his  breast, 
And  Greville  Montagu, 

31 


ACADIAN  BALLADS 

Of  privileged  councillors,  judges  grave, 
And  men  of  towering  trust, 
And  British  soldiers,  staunch  and  brave, 
All  turned  to  powdered  dust. 


It  would  tell  of  the  happy  unions  sealed 
Within  the  hallowed  fane, 
Of  the  widowed  souls  that  here  have  reeled, 
'Neath  staggering  loads  of  pain  ; 

Of  wraiths  that  have  risen  of  sins  long  past 
As  people  tried  to  pray, 
Of  light  that  has  shone  from  heaven  at  last 
And  shamed  the  shades  away. 

Word  of  a  wizard  to  break  the  spell 
That  lies,  old  church,  on  thee, 
To  open  thy  lips  and  bid  thee  tell 
Thy  treasured  thoughts  to  me — 

I  never  pass  through  thy  portals  kind, 
When  here  my  feet  have  chanced, 
That  silvery  tongues  do  not  unbind 
And  hold  me  long  entranced. 

32 


ST.  PAUL'S  CHURCH 

Timbered  in  times  when  men  built  strong, 
Thy  tower  of  wood  grown  gray, 
The  frame  of  thee  old,  the  heart  still  young, 
Dear  church,  for  many  a  day, 

Winter  and  summer,  thy  bells  aloud 
Shall  jangle  and  clang  and  churn, 
And  men  in  thy  shadow,  meek  or  proud, 
The  way  of  heaven  shall  learn. 


33 


THE  COTTAGE 

IN  a  quaint  cottage  in  the  Acadian  land 
A  poet's  youth  was  spent, 
Where  waving  dykes  await  the  mower's  hand 
And  orchards  almost  drown  the  air  with  scent. 

In  rambling  picturesqueness  on  a  hill, 
Clad  with  luxuriant  vines  the  cottage  stood, 
With  gardens  back  where  one  could  watch  at  will 
The  rich  red  tides  sweep  up  from  Fundy's  flood. 

On  the  dark  walls  within,  the  livelong  day, 
The  sunbeams  wove  patterns  of  loveliest  grace 
And  many  a  morn  the  boy  half-conscious  lay 
And  dreamed  that  round  him  hung  like  folds  of  lace 

Fine  purple  fabrics  woven  by  Indian  looms 
For  princely  palace  walls  inlaid  with  gold; 
That  subtle-textured  stuffs  bedecked  the  rooms 
And  splendid  tapestries  with  scenes  of  old, 

34 


THE  COTTAGE 

And  shimmering  silks;  that  unknown  hands  had 

drest 

With  them  the  winding  halls  and  parlours  square, 
Draped  the  deep  windows  looking  east  and  west 
And  made  the  old  mansion  plain  a  palace  fair. 

Such  things  he  pictured  till  the  morn  went  by, 
Then  the  mixed  colours  that  his  garden  wore, 
The  shadowy  elms,  the  soft  clouds  floating  by 
To  loftier  realms  his  fervid  fancy  bore. 

Visions  of  heavenly  beauty  haunted  him, 
The  velvet  dykes,  the  fields  in  which  he  strayed, 
The  blossoming  orchards,  even  the  forest  dim, 
Were  thronged  with  spirit-forms  that  round  him 
played. 

Who  does  not  love  the  place  where  first  he  knew 

Imagination's  wondrous  witchery, 

Where  his  cramped  soul  first  gathered  wings  and 

flew 
Beyond  the  accustomed  bounds  of  sky  or  sea; 

Who,  travelling  onward  toward  the  setting  sun 
Keeps  not  in  tender  thought  his  earliest  feast 
Of  beauty,  when  amidst  sweet  scenes  he  spun 
Ecstatic  visions,  being  nature's  priest  ? 

35 


ACADIAN  BALLADS 

Gone  is  the  cottage  where  in  fresh  day  dreams 
The  boy  to  lovely  lands  first  winged  his  flight, 
Drank  deep,  delicious  draughts  from  beauty's 

streams 
And  felt  the  glory  that  sweeps  round  our  night, 

But  the  same  sense  of  colour,  form,  and  sound 
Lives  in  him,  and  he  knows  that  by  and  by, 
Back  of  disharmony,  when  the  Truth  is  found, 
Beauty  unspeakable  will  be  seen  to  lie.' 


ORCHARDS  IN  BLOOM 

BANKS  of  bloom  on  a  billowy  plain 
Odours  of  orient  in  the  air, 
Pink-tipped  petals  that  fall  like  rain, 
Allah's  garden  everywhere. 

Infinite  depths  in  the  blue  above, 
Glint  of  gold  on  the  hill-tops  gray, 
Orioles  trilling  songs  of  love 
With  tireless  throats  the  long  June  day. 

Fields  of  emerald,  tufted  white, 
Yellow,  and  azure,  far  outspread — 
O  the  measureless  soul-delight 
In  the  scent  of  the  clover  blossoms  red! 

Revel  of  joy,  sweet  ecstasy, 
Perfect  life  of  the  year  begun, 
Nothing  to  whisper  of  what  shall  be 
When  earth  lies  ripe  in  the  autumn  sun, 

37 


ACADIAN  BALLADS 

Never  a  hint  that  the  orchards  wide 
Where  Heaven's  pink  incense-torches  burn 
In  the  swift  on-moving  summertide 
To  heavy-fruited  woods  shall  turn. 

Pleasure  it  is  to  him  who  sips 

The  nectarous  sweets  that  open  here, 

Maddening  bliss  to  him  who  dips 

Deep  in  the  bowl  of  the  blossoming  year. 

Banks  of  bloom  on  a  billowy  plain, 
Odours  of  Heaven  that  fill  the  air, 
Pink-tipped  petals  that  fall  like  rain, 
Allah's  garden  everywhere! 


ATLANTIC  MISTS 

UP  from  the  sea  the  white  mists  roll, 
Soft  as  the  robes  a  dancer  sways, 
Pure  as  the  dreams  that  swathe  the  soul 
Of  a  laughing  child,  at  peace  always. 

The  blue-veined  hills  at  the  north  they  hide 
With  a  veil  that  hangs  like  filmy  gauze, 
And  they  lower  and  lift  and  fling  aside 
Their  matchless  drapery,  without  pause. 

Grange  and  meadow  and  dyke  below 

Lie  in  the  sun  in  calm  content, 

Hither  and  thither  like  wraiths  they  go, 

But  their  shadowy  grace  on  the  cliffs  is  spent. 

Up  from  the  sea  of  silence  sweep 
Beautiful  visions  to  the  soul, 
Thoughts  that  rest  on  the  mountain  steep 
But  have  no  power  o'er  the  plain  to  roll; 

39 


ACADIAN  BALLADS 

Man  is  the  child  of  field  or  grange, 
So  we  say  when  our  eyes  are  blind; 
But  the  blue-veined  hills  we  all  shall  range 
And  truths  the  white  mists  are,  shall  find. 


40 


IMPRESSIONS 

BREADTHS  of  green  and  blue  on  the  shallow 
water, 

Tufts  of  lighter  green  o'er  the  dune-lands  gray, 
Soundless  deeps  on  deeps  of  a  colour  blended 
Of  green  and  blue  and  gold,  in  the  sky  to-day. 

Topaz  fires  and  red  on  the  shallow  water, 
Rose  and  emerald  mixed  on  the  dune-lands  gray, 
Flames  of  crimson,  gold,  and  Tyrian  purple, — 
This  was  the  sunset  blazon  yesterday. 

Opalescent  tints  on  the  shallow  water, 
Pink  and  green  and  blue  on  the  dune-lands  gray, 
Lustrous  lights  in  the  sky,  a  pearly  splendour, 
Pageant  this,  of  many  a  perfect  day. 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLOWERS 

UP  and  down  the  garden  walks 
Every  day  I  watch  her  go, 
Past  great  clumps  of  nodding  stalks 
Crowned  with  blushing  crimson  roses, 
Or  with  lilies,  white  as  snow. 

Lilacs  dashing  on  the  air 
Persian  odors,  in  delight 
Bend  and  almost  touch  her  hair; 
On  the  bough  where  he  reposes 
Sings  the  oriole  with  his  might. 

She  has  crocuses  in  spring, 
Yellow,  purple,  pink,  and  gray, 
Daffodils  that  round  her  fling 
Gold  magnificently  minted, 
Snowdrops  tender,  jonquils  gay. 

42 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLOWERS 

Tulips,  scarlet-mantled,  turn 
Richer  red  as  she  goes  by, 
Royal  princesses  that  spurn 
In  their  splendour,  all  unstinted, 
Other  flowers  that  venture  nigh. 

Easter  lilies  crave  the  touch 
Of  her  carmine-tinted  lips, — 
Finer  flowers  by  far  than  such 
As  bedeck  the  fields  immortal, 
Whose  soft  fragrance  Juno  sips. 

Down  a  pink-plumed  peony  row 
Into  purple  iris  lanes, 
Onward  still  I  see  her  go, 
To  a  Turk's-cap-lilied  portal, 
Where  perpetual  coolness  reigns. 

There  in  deep,  luxuriant  bowers 
Of  wistaria,  rich  with  bloom, 
Sits  the  Lady  of  the  Flowers, — 
Queens  have  subjects,  myriads  rally 
Round  her  beautiful  throne-room. 

"High  midsummer  pomps"  ere  long 
Crowd  about  their  sovereign's  feet, 

43 


ACADIAN  BALLADS 

Orange-spiked  tritonias  throng, 
Orient  poppies  outward  sally 
To  protect  her  royal  seat. 

Indian  pinks,  and  blue-bells  bound 
In  a  chaplet,  she  may  wear, 
Trumpet  flowers  in  crimson  gowned 
Like  the  queens  of  eastern  story 
She  may  have  to  deck  her  hair. 

When  September's  gold  and  red 
Make  the  world  a  sea  of  flame 
Round  her  in  ripe  splendour  spread 
"Indian  visions  steeped  in  glory," 
Putting  earlier  scenes  to  shame, 

Purple  phlox  in  rich  array, 
Salvia  in  conspicuous  rows, 
Yellow  cannas,  larkspur  gay, 
Mignonette  and  musk  carnations, 
Dahlias  in  majestic  pose. 

All  alike  possess  her  heart, 

She  is  sovereign,  that  they  know, 

But  she  never  dwells  apart 

44 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLOWERS 

Like  the  queens  of  other  nations 
From  her  folk  on  planes  below; 

Through  the  winding  garden  walks 

Every  day  she  freely  moves, 

Holding  sympathetic  talks 

With  her  friends,  whatever  their  stations, 

For  the  meanest  one  she  loves. 


45 


PURPLE  ASTERS 

1HAD  a  garden  when  I  was  a  boy, 
Wherein  I  planted  fondly  many  a  flower 
And  watched  it  grow  until  I  felt  the  joy 
That  every  gardener  feels,  as  Nature's  power 
To  make  rare  scents  exhale  from  stalks  of  green 
And  dash  rich  colors  o'er  dull  earth  is  seen. 

In  that  old  garden,  bright  with  varied  bloom 
From  crimson  tulip  time  till  winter  fell, 
It  seemed  as  if  no  flower  begotten  of  gloom 
Had  any  right,  or  even  should  dare  to  dwell, 
Yet  o'er  one  spot  where  wildness  still  held  sway 
A  sullen,  sad,  persistent  shadow  lay. 

Amongst  the  grasses  tangled  field  flowers  grew, 
Fringed,  tender,  trembling  things  that  we  called 

weeds 
(Names  mean  so  little),  always  wet  with  dew, 

46 


PURPLE  ASTERS 

That  clung  to  their  pale  disks  in  liquid  beads, — 
They  seemed  in  the  fine  colour-symphony 
Of  the  gay  garden  minor  chords  to  be. 

Here  each  September  purple  asters  came 
When  earth  wore  gold  and  scarlet  on  her  breast 
And  fields  were  ripe  and  Autumn's  flood  of  flame 
Swept  noiseless  o'er  the  woods  from  east  to  west, 
They  flaunted  not  in  regal  violet  bloom 
But  seemed  like  tearful  souls  begot  in  gloom. 

The  lives  of  men  are  gardens  from  whose  soil 

Spring  deep  red-petalled  roses,  violets  blue 

As  heaven;  where  passion  flowers,  too,  fix  their  coil 

Round  frail  anemones,  heartsease,  and  rue; 

But  in  some  sheltered  spots,  bright  blooms  beside, 

Pale,  pleading  purple  asters  always  hide. 

They  tell  us  there  are  gardens  richly  clad 

In  crimson,  sapphire,  gold,  awaiting  men 

Beyond  the  stars,  where  heavy  hearts  grow  glad 

And  never  to  low  levels  sink  again; 

Can  life  so  change  that  in  such  lands  shall  be 

No  purple  asters  of  despondency  ? 


47 


ALICE  HAMILTON 

AS  through  a  scented  clover  lane 
I  walked  one  summer  day, 
I  met  blithe  Alice  Hamilton, 
Of  the  Hamiltons  of  Brae. 

The  sunlight  rippling  o'er  the  fields 
And  round  the  landscape  gay 
Caressed  young  Alice  Hamilton, 
Of  the  Hamiltons  of  Brae. 

A  gown  of  filmy  white  she  wore, 
As  free  from  soil  or  stain 
As  her  fresh  life  was  free  from  care, 
Her  fervid  heart  from  pain. 

Ere  long  she  met  a  ragged  girl, 
The  child  had  lost  her  way 
And  cried  as  if  her  little  soul 
Would  burst,  that  summer  day; 


ALICE  HAMILTON 

She  took  the  sad  one  in  her  arms 
And  wiped  its  tears  away 
And  kissed  it,  Alice  Hamilton, 
Of  the  Hamiltons  of  Brae. 


What  matter  if  her  gown  were  soiled, 
She  cared  not  for  the  stain, 
Her  heart  on  the  sweet  task  was  set 
Of  soothing  children's  pain. 

Her  tenderness  was  deep,  and  so 
There  never  passed  a  day 
That  from  her  love  God  did  not  light 
A  lamp  for  some  dark  way. 

'Twas  long  ago  she  went  from  earth 
Within  the  shadows  gray, 
Dear,  helpful  Alice  Hamilton, 
Of  the  Hamiltons  of  Brae; 

She  died  before  her  own  young  heart 
Had  felt  life's  bitterest  pain, 
While  laughter  yet  lay  close  to  tears 
As  sunshine  does  to  rain, 

49 


ACADIAN  BALLADS 

While  violets  still  with  carpets  blue 
Screened  all  unsightly  clay, 
And  daffodils  danced  merrily 
Beside  the  dreariest  way, 

But  the  clear  torch  she  set  alight 
Shines  like  a  sun  to-day, 
And  men  bless  Alice  Hamilton, 
Of  the  Hamiltons  of  Brae. 


JOSEPHINE 

WHEN  Lady  Falkland  made  her  home 
In  this  fair  land  of  Acadie 
She  loved  incessantly  to  roam 
About  the  woods  and  fields  with  thee, 
O'er  many  a  daisied  meadow,  green, 
She  danced  with  thee,  sweet  Josephine. 

Past  hedges  of  pink  roses,  wild, 
That  on  the  air  their  fragrance  fling, 
Ye  wandered,  thou  scarce  more  than  child, 
She  daughter  of  the  Sailor  King; 
Where  clustered  hawthorns  outward  lean 
Ye  rested,  often,  Josephine. 

Down  lilac-bordered  lanes  ye  went, 
With  honeysuckle  half  abloom, 
And  caught  the  shy,  delicious  scent 


ACADIAN  BALLADS 

Of  slender  violets,  hid  in  gloom, 
Ye  plucked  the  saffron  celandine 
And  flaming  Turk's-cap,  Josephine. 

When  autumn's  ripeness  filled  the  air 
And  woods  with  scarlet  were  inwrought 
And  golden-rod  gleamed  everywhere, 
The  deep-blue  gentian,  fringed,  ye  sought, 
No  flower  that  grew  was  e'er  too  mean 
To  make  your  garland,  Josephine. 

She  begged  thy  mother,  but  in  vain, 
For  long  companionship  with  thee, 
She  would  have  had  thee  in  her  train, 
Her  ward  at  court,  perchance,  to  be, 
What  marvels  might'st  thou  not  have  seen 
Had'st  thou  gone  with  her,  Josephine! 

Ye  parted,  as  so  many  part; 
The  fire  of  love,  a  ruddy  flame, 
Kindled  in  each  responsive  heart 
But  doomed  to  perish  as  it  came, — 
To  be  revived,  sometime,  I  ween 
In  friendlier  worlds,  young  Josephine. 


DEATH  IN  ACADIA 

CRIMSON  the  leaves  of  the  maples  had  grown, 
Earth  in  a  purple  pall  was  sleeping, 
The  South  wind  came  with  a  stifled  moan 
Into  the  open  casement  creeping ; 

From  stagnant  pools  in  the  slumbering  hills 
The  brook  flowed  languidly  to  the  ocean, 
And  the  tired  wheels  of  the  labouring  mills 
Were  roused  to  only  a  feeble  motion. 

Home  from  the  fields  the  reapers  came, 
Late-gleaned  sheaves  of  the  harvest  bringing, 
Deep  in  the  forest,  still  aflame, 
The  last  of  the  summer  birds  were  singing ; 

Grapes  on  the  vine  and  glistening  corn 
With  asters  and  golden-rod  were  vying, — 
Alas  that  the  year  so  blithely  born 
Should  now  in  autumn's  arms  be  dying! 

53 


ACADIAN  BALLADS 

The  death  of  the  year,  and  otherwhere 
Death  had  fallen  with  loud  lamenting, 
There  were  spirits  voicing  strange  despair, 
There  were  some  in  silent  grief-shades  tenting. 


Gone,  could  it  be,  from  the  face  of  the  sun! 
She  who  had  reared  strong  lives  and  spoken 
Words  that  had  given  men  power  to  run 
The  roads  of  the  world,  so  steep  and  broken. 

Gone,  could  it  be!  and  summer  still 
Rich  in  her  veins  and  gold  yet  glinting 
From  her  beautiful  brow,  so  smooth  until 
Suddenly  pain  made  cruel  minting. 

O  the  agony  of  the  parting, 
When  the  child  in  fear  beholds  his  mother 
Torn  from  the  life  she  loves  and  starting, 
Through  what  strange  gates  God  knows,  on  another; 

In  difficult  roads,  perchance,  to  falter, 
Weak  for  the  want  of  the  old  sustaining, 
Sick  for  the  dear  domestic  altar 
Whereon  love  burned,  a  torch  unwaning. 

54 


DEATH  IN  ACADIA 

With  the  crimsoning  maples  this  had  come, 
Night  had  fallen  on  her  noonday  glory, 
And  common  pity's  lips  grew  dumb 
Nor  stammered  out:  "A  time-worn  story!" 

The  mourners  lay  'neath  a  wintry  sky 
And  saw  from  the  frosty  welkin's  lashes 
Tears  fall  fast,  though  their  own  were  dry 
As  the  fiery  orb's  when  it  flames  and  flashes. 

But  there  dawned  at  last  a  sweet  new  day, 
When  over  the  hill  tops  hope  came  bursting 
Into  the  hearts  so  cold  and  gray, 
Into  the  souls  for  comfort  thirsting; 

Out  of  the  silence  wave-like  swept 
A  stream  of  faith  and  strong  believing, 
And  the  mourners,  prostrate,  upward  leapt 
And  drank  it  in,  and  ceased  their  grieving. 


Crimson  the  leaves  of  the  maples  had  grown, 
The  vines  with  the  purple  fields  were  vying, 
Purple  and  crimson  flowers  were  strown 
On  the  fresh-made  grave  where  her  form  was  lying 

55 


ACADIAN  BALLADS 

And  crimson  and  purple  blending  there 
Became  such  glory  as  covers  heaven 
When  the  sun,  at  rest  in  his  palace  fair, 
To  the  sky  his  royal  robes  has  given. 

Crimson  the  petals  of  hope  had  grown, 
A  purple  pall  o'er  faith  was  lying, — 
But  suddenly  doubt  was  overthrown 
And  the  mourners  knew  there  was  no  dying. 


A  SAINT 

WHATEVER  crowns  the  just  may  wear, 
Whatever  worlds  of  light  there  be, 
I  know  his  soul,  unshackled,  free, 
Has  come  to  share. 

He  reared  an  honourable  name, 
He  lived  almost  the  allotted  span, 
Since  time  first  dawned  no  vigorous  man 
Has  earned  less  blame — 

So  ran  the  record  when  he  died ; 
But  who  could  fitly  mete  his  worth, 
His  freedom  from  the  sins  of  earth, 
Deceit  and  pride; 

His  inward  sense  of  righteousness, 
The  heed  he  gave  to  duty's  call, 
His  faith  that  sorrows,  great  and  small, 
Are  sent  to  bless. 

57 


ACADIAN  BALLADS 

Men  seek  the  paths  self-love  has  planned, 
He  scorned  to  walk  in  tortuous  ways, 
The  light  that  lured  him  all  his  days 
Was  God's  command. 

His  heart  with  pity  was  imbued, 
And  patience  and  self-sacrifice, — 
He  gave  men  these,  and  asked  no  price, 
Even  gratitude. 

O  saint,  upon  thy  radiant  brow 
Such  light  appears  we  veil  our  eyes, 
Heaven  make  us  half  as  strong  and  wise, 
And  great,  as  thou! 

Whatever  crowns  the  just  may  wear, 
Whatever  worlds  of  light  there  be, 
Thy  spirit  now,  unshackled,  free, 
Must  fully  share. 


PART  II 


THE  LEGEND  OF  GLOOSCAP 

BARING  its  breast  to  the  sun  as  of  yore 
Stretches  the  fertile  Acadian  shore; 
Waiting  for  sickle  and  scythe  and  wain 
Glisten  its  fields  of  golden  grain. 

Like  a  sabred  sentinel,  grim  and  gray, 
Blomidon  stands  at  the  head  of  the  Bay, 
And  the  turbulent  ocean  tides  at  will 
Sweep  into  Minas  Basin  still. 

Deep  in  the  hills  the  Gaspereau 
Babbles  on  to  the  sea  below, 
Crystal  and  clear,  till  Fundy's  flood 
Makes  it  a  river  red  as  blood. 

Here  is  the  spot,  enringed  with  blue, 
Where  sparks  from  the  forge  of  Basil  flew, 
Under  these  clustered  willows  green 
Dwelt  Gabriel's  love,  Evangeline. 

61 


ACADIAN  BALLADS 

Long  ere  the  Frenchmen  drove  away 
The  encroaching  tides  from  broad  Grand  Pre, 
Binding  the  dykes  like  emerald  bands 
Round  the  murmuring  meadow  lands, 

The  Micmac  sailed  in  his  birch  canoe, 
In  the  track  of  the  moon,  the  Basin  blue, 
Hunted  the  hills,  or  fell  asleep 
By  his  wigwam  fire  in  the  forest  deep. 

Skilled  in  many  an  Indian  art 
The  dark-faced  mother  crooned  apart 
To  her  tired  babes  the  folk-songs  wild 
That  are  sung  to  each  Algonquin  child. 

Over  the  tribe  with  jealous  eye 
The  Father  of  All  kept  watch  on  high, 
In  the  purple  mists  of  Blomidon 
The  mighty  Glooscap  had  his  throne. 


No  matter  how  far  his  feet  might  stray 
From  the  usual  haunts  of  the  tribe  away 
When  the  Micmac  uttered  his  cry  of  fear 
He  found  his  Glooscap  there  to  hear. 

62 


THE  LEGEND  OF  GLOOSCAP 

'Twas  Glooscap  had  sent  for  the  Indian's  use 
Beaver  and  bear  and  mink  and  moose 
Into  the  heart  of  the  wild  woodlands; 
Glooscap  had  strewn  the  sparkling  sands 

Of  the  tide-swept  beach  of  the  stormy  Bay 
With  amethysts  purple  and  agates  gray; 
And  into  the  heart  of  love  had  flung 
That  which  keeps  love  ever  young. 

But  the  Frenchman  came  and  with  ruthless  hand 
Cut  the  forests  and  cleared  the  land, 
And  plowed  and  planted,  till  on  the  shore 
Micmac  and  moose  were  seen  no  more; 


And  Glooscap  went  with  his  heart  opprest 
Into  the  wild,  mysterious  west, 
While  the  Micmac  kindled  his  wigwam  fire 
Far  from  the  grave  of  his  child  and  his  sire. 


Now,  bravely  bearing  the  thrusts  of  fate, 
Passive-spirited,  free  from  hate, 
He  hunts  the  moose  when  the  snows  lie  deep 
Fishes  the  streams  where  salmon  leap, 

63 


ACADIAN  BALLADS 

Or  patiently  weaves  his  baskets  gay 
And  paddles  his  birch  canoe  away; 
But  he  always  dreams  of  the  ages  when 
Glooscap  shall  dwell  with  his  tribe  again. 


L'lLE  SAINTE  CROIX 

THE    FIRST   FRENCH    SETTLEMENT   IN  AMERICA  WAS 
MADE   HERE    IN    1604 

WITH  tangled  brushwood  overgrown, 
And  here  and  there  a  lofty  pine, 
Around  whose  form  strange  creepers  twine, 
And  crags  that  mock  the  wild  sea's  moan, 

And  little  bays  where  no  ships  come, 
Though  many  a  white  sail  passes  by, 
And  many  a  drifting  cloud  on  high 

Looks  down  and  shames  the  sleeping  foam, 

Unconscious  on  the  waves  it  lies, 

While  midst  the  golden  reeds  and  sedge 
That,  southward,  line  the  water's  edge, 

The  thrush  sings  her  shrill  melodies. 

No  human  dwelling  now  is  seen 
Upon  its  rude,  unfertile  slopes, 
Though  many  a  summer  traveller  gropes 

For  ruins  midst  the  tangled  green, 

65 


ACADIAN  BALLADS 

And  seeks  upon  the  northern  shore 
The  graves  of  that  adventurous  band 
That  followed  to  the  Acadian  land 

Champlain,  De  Monts,  and  Poutrincourt. 

There  stood  the  ancient  fort  that  sent 
Fierce  cannon  echoes  through  the  wold, 
There  waved  the  Bourbon  flag  that  told 

The  mastery  of  a  continent; 

There  through  the  pines  the  echoing  wail 
Of  ghostly  winds  was  heard  at  eve, 
And  hoarse,  deep  sounds  like  those  that  heave 

The  breasts  of  stricken  warriors  pale. 

There  Huguenots  and  cassocked  priests, 

And  noble-born  and  sons  of  toil, 

Together  worked  the  barren  soil, 
And  shared  each  other's  frugal  feasts, 


And  dreamed  beneath  the  yellow  moon 
Of  golden  reapings  that  should  be, 
Conjuring  from  the  sailless  sea 

A  glad,  prophetic  harvest-tune, 

66 


L'lLE  ST.  CROIX 

Till  stealthy  winter  through  the  reeds 
Crept,  crystal-footed,  to  the  shore, 
And  to  the  little  hamlet  bore 

His  hidden  freight  of  deathly  seeds. 

Spring  came  at  last,  and  o'er  the  waves 
The  welcome  sail  of  Pontgrave, 
But  half  the  number  silent  lay, 

Death's  pale  first-fruits,  in  western  graves. 

Sing  on,  wild  sea,  your  sad  refrain 
For  all  the  gallant  sons  of  France, 
Whose  songs  and  sufferings  enhance 

The  witchery  of  the  western  main, 

Keep  kindly  watch  before  the  strand 
Where  lie  in  hidden  mounds,  secure, 
The  men  De  Monts  and  Poutrincourt 

First  led  to  the  Acadian  land. 


POUTRINCOURTS  RETURN  TO  PORT 
ROYAL 

JULY,    1606 

THE  Western  world,  unclaimed  and  free, 
A  trackless  forest  lay, 
Of  dark  pines  by  the  polar  sea, 
Of  palms  by  Tampa  Bay, 

Beneath  the  sheltering  woods  of  Maine 
A  few  French  graves  were  seen, 

And  one  lone  flag,  the  flag  of  Spain, 
Waved  o'er  St.  Augustine, 

When  up  Port  Royal's  basin  flew, 

Before  the  freshening  breeze, 
A  ship  whose  weather-beaten  crew 

Had  long  sailed  stormier  seas. 

Beyond  the  narrow  ocean  door 

Rough-rolling  Fundy  lay, 
But  Fundy's  fiercest  tides  forbore 

To  enter  this  blue  bay. 

68 


POUTRINCOURT'S   RETURN 

The  red-coned,  resinous,  raftered  pines 
The  rocky  heights  o'erhung, 

And  down  the  laurel-starred  inclines 
The  elms  thick  shadows  flung, 

Wild  blossoms,  scarlet,  blue,  and  gold, 

Spread  colour  everywhere, 
And  tiny  throats  sweet  love  tales  told 

July's  soft,  sensuous  air. 

Across  the  Atlantic,  lonely,  vast, 

An  almost  untrod  sea, 
Proud  Poutrincourt  has  come  at  last 

With  his  mixed  company; 


Enraptured  to  the  decks  they  press, 
Hope  in  their  hearts  so  strong 

That  some  tell  out  their  happiness 
In  strains  of  Breton  song. 

Here  lies  Port  Royal;  here  Champlain 

And  venturous  Pontgrave 
Have  made  in  Poutrincourt's  domain 

A  long,  delightful  stay; 


ACADIAN  BALLADS 

And  here  at  last  in  safety  dwell, 

Once  more  attuned  to  joy, 
The  broken  band  whose  comrades  fell 

At  sorrowful  St.  Croix. 


Some  on  the  Bay  are  voyaging, 
But  some  run  down  the  shore 

And  make  the  woods  with  welcome  ring 
To  valiant  Poutrincourt. 

The  Micmacs,  too,  the  strangers  pale 
With  friendly  gestures  greet, 

And  round  the  ship  delighted  sail 
Their  mimic  birchen  fleet. 


At  last  into  the  harbour  green 

A  little  sloop  rides  gay 
And  soon  beside  her  masts  are  seen 

Champlain  and  Pontgrave, 

Then  while  the  Bourbon  lilies  meet 
The  winds  in  glad  caress, 

Stout-hearted  men  each  other  greet 
With  yearning  tenderness. 

70 


POUTRINCOURT'S    RETURN 

Thus  rose  in  clear  Acadian  skies 
Port  Royal's  peaceful  star, 

No  Spanish  conqueror's  cruelties 
Her  earliest  annals  mar. 

Though  warlike  men  in  later  days 
Laid  waste  the  lovely  shore, 

Acadia's  patriot  sons  must  praise 
The  valorous  Poutrincourt, 

For  he  built  on  the  Basin's  strand, 
Above  the  meadows  green, 

The  oldest  town  in  all  the  land 
Save  quaint  St.  Augustine. 


L'ORDRE  DE  BON  TEMPS 

WINTER   OF    1606-7 

TWO  hundred  years  ago  and  more, 
When  history  was  romance, 
The  white  flag  of  the  Bourbons  flew 
From  all  the  gates  of  France, 

And  even  on  these  stern  Western  shores 
Rock-ribbed  and  forest-mailed, 

The  Bourbon  name,  the  Bourbon  fame 
With  "Vive  le  Roi"  was  hailed. 

O  "Vive  le  Roi!"  and  "Vive  le  Roi!" 

Those  wild  adventurous  days 
When  brave  Champlain  and  Poutrincourt 

Explored  the  Acadian  bays, 

When  from  Port  Royal's  rude-built  walls 

Gleamed  o'er  the  hills  afar 
The  golden  lilies  of  the  shield 

Of  Henry  of  Navarre. 

72 


L'ORDRE  DE  BON  TEMPS 

A  gay  and  gallant  company 

Those  voyagers  of  old 
Whose  life  in  the  Acadian  fort 

Lescarbot's  verse  has  told, 


In  mirth  and  merriment  they  formed 
Their  "Order  of  Good  Cheer" 

And  many  a  mimic  revel  kept 
Throughout  the  winter  drear. 

Aye,  while  the  snow  blew  wildly  o'er 
The  meadows  crisp  and  bare, 

And  hooded  the  adjacent  hills 
Like  nuns  of  Saint-Hilaire, 

Each  day  they  spread  a  goodly  feast 

Not  anywise  too  poor 
To  suit  the  taste  of  such  as  dine 

In  famous  Rue  Aux  Ours. 

Then  as  the  old  French  clock  rang  out, 

With  echoes  musical, 
Twelve  silvery  strokes,  the  hour  of  noon, 

Through  the  pine-scented  hall, 

73 


ACADIAN  BALLADS 

The  Master  of  the  Order  came 
To  serve  each  hungry  guest, 

A  napkin  o'er  his  shoulder  thrown, 
And  flashing  on  his  breast 

A  collar  decked  with  diamonds, 
And  pearls  and  turquoise  blue, 

While  close  behind  in  warrior  dress 
Walked  old  Chief  Membertou; 

Then  wine  went  round,  and  friends  were 
pledged 

With  kindly  courtesy, 
And  ne'er  was  heard  one  longing  word 

For  France  beyond  the  sea. 

O  days  of  bold  adventure  past, 

O  gay,  adventurous  men, 
Your  "Order  of  Good  Times"  I  think 

Shall  ne'er  be  seen  again, 

For  proud  Port  Royal's  fortress  is 

A  peaceful  ruin  now, 
Where  booming  guns  have  yielded  place 

To  sickle,  scythe,  and  plow, 

74 


L'ORDRE  DE  BON  TEMPS 

And  commerce  rules  these  shores  remote, 

And  trading  vessels  ply 
The  seas  where  frigates  used  to  float 

The  Bourbon  flag  on  high, 

And  kings  and  queens  and  captains  brave 

To  other  lands  are  wed, 
And  the  rare  witchery  romance  gave 

These  western  wilds  is  dead. 


THE  BAPTISM  OF  MEMBERTOU 

JUNE    24,    l6lO 

UT  of  the  fort ! "  came  the  word  of  command, 
"Shoreward,  good  comrades  of  Poutrin- 
court's  band!" 

Wide  swung  the  gates  in  the  earth-bastioned  wall, 
No  one  delayed,  save  the  guard,  at  the  call. 

Soldiers  stepped  quickly  with  clattering  feet 
Over  the  wooden  moat-bridge  to  the  street, 
Swords  rattled,  sabre  sheaths  flashed  to  the  sky, 
Sentries  saluted  and  colours  waved  high. 

Through  fern-clad  fields  to  the  shell-covered  shore 
Swift  marching,  trod  the  trained  veteran  corps, 
Captained,  accoutred,  as  if  on  the  tide 
Some  English  war-ship  that  day  had  been  spied. 


THE  BAPTISM  OF  MEMBERTOU 

Look  o'er  the  basin  as  far  as  you  may 

Not  a  sail  flecks  the  horizon  to-day, 

Not  a  sound  ruffles  the  still  air  of  June 

Save  the  satisfied  swish  of  the  tide  at  high  noon, 

But  by  the  sea-verge,  his  eyes  to  the  east, 
Vested  and  stoled,  stands  the  Recollet  priest; 
Captains  and  courtiers  around  him,  in  state, 
Lackeys  and  laborers,  expectantly  wait. 

Forth  from  their  steep-pointed  wigwams  of  pine 
Silently  stepping  in  slow  single  line, 
Speechless,  as  if  by  a  vision  struck  dumb, 
Hundreds  of  wampum-decked  Indians  come, 

Back  of  old  Membertou,  chief  of  the  land, 
Reverently  facing  the  friar  they  stand, 
Childlike,  submissive,  some  true  sense  of  need 
Sealing  their  spirits  to  Christ  and  his  creed. 

Eastward  the  river,  lethargic  and  dun, 
Lies  like  a  serpent  asleep  in  the  sun, 
Southward  the  forest,  an  ocean  of  green, 
Rolls  its  luxuriant  waves  from  the  scene. 

Suddenly  sounds  from  the  guard  on  the  wall 
One  silver  bugle-blast,  and  at  the  call 

77 


ACADIAN  BALLADS 

Josue  Fleche,  the  spare  Recollet  priest, 
Piously  crossing  himself  to  the  east, 

Chants  in  good  Latin  faith's  formula  old, 
Said  through  the  ages  by  millions  untold. 
Making  the  sign  of  the  Christian  belief 
First  he  baptizes  the  gray-headed  chief, 

Then  to  the  tribe  fathers,  twenty  or  more, 
Gives  the  blest  rite,  while  away  from  the  shore 
To  the  edge  of  the  pine  woods,  all  trackless  and  dim, 
Travel  the  strains  of  the  Church's  great  hymn : 

"Te  Deum  laudamus"  sing  soldier  and  priest, 
"The  world  doth  adore  thee,  the  west  like  the  east; 
Acadia's  children  with  angels  on  high 
Henceforth  to  the  Son  of  the  Virgin  shall  cry." 

This  was  the  new  world's  first  triumph  for  God, 
Here  on  Port  Royal's  fresh-burgeoning  sod 
Poutrincourt's  pioneer  band  ushered  in 
Christian  beliefs  and  the  conquest  of  sin. 

Carry  the  news  of  it  back  to  the  east, 

Tell  how  Acadia's  Recollet  priest 

Won  to  the  Church  and  her  sacraments  true 

These  Micmac  men  and  their  chief,  Membertou, 

78 


THE  BAPTISM  OF  MEMBERTOU 

Plucked  the  first  fruits  of  whole  harvests  to  be, 
Kindled  a  fire  that  the  ages  should  see; 
Let  the  news  spread  how  a  continent  came 
Under  the  sway  of  the  thrice  holy  name! 


79 


LA  TOUR  AND  BIENCOURT 

BIENCOURT   DIED    IN    1623 

WHEN  Henry  of  Navarre  was  king 
The  muse  would  sometimes  lure 
The  gay  Lescarbot's  lips  to  sing 
In  praise  of  Poutrincourt, 

My  muse  commands  me  shrine  the  names 
In  sympathetic  lay 

Of  two  sweet  youths,  whose  friendship  claims 
Fond  thoughts  from  us  alway. 

From  France  light-heartedly  they  sailed, 
Youngest  of  all  the  band 
Whose  fortunes  ruddier  grew,  or  paled, 
In  the  Acadian  land. 

Here  their  fresh  lives  enlinked  as  one 
And  love's  rich  fruitage  bore, 
No  sweeter  union  'neath  the  sun 
Than  Biencourt's  with  La  Tour. 

80 


LA  TOUR  AND  BIENCOURT 

They  trod  the  strand  of  purple  bays, 
Explored  the  forests  deep, 
Canoed  the  dark-pooled  water  ways 
Where  salmon  plunge  and  leap, 


Welcomed  the  first  faint  flush  of  spring, 
The  warm  light  on  the  hills, 
The  happy  bluebirds  on  the  wing, 
Nature's  unnumbered  thrills, 

Outwatched  the  light  of  summer  moons 
Amidst  old  Fundy's  roar, 
Listened  the  crying  of  the  loons 
On  Digby's  lonely  shore, 

And  every  season's  fresh  surprise 
Kindled  their  love  anew, 
And  every  toilsome  enterprise 
Their  hearts  still  closer  drew. 

At  last  Biencourt's  fortunate  star 
The  western  skies  upclomb, 
And  to  the  court  of  proud  Navarre 
His  fame  went  echoing  home, 

81 


ACADIAN  BALLADS 

But  in  the  vicarious  rule  of  France, 
Amidst  the  strife  and  stir 
That  marked  young  Acadie's  advance, 
Two  heads  and  hearts  there  were. 

Ere  fortune's  light  had  come  to  wane, 
Or  hope  to  dim  by  doubt, 
Somewhere  in  his  beloved  domain 
Biencourt's  life  went  out, 

And  bitterer  tears  were  never  shed 
By  manly  eyes  before 
Than  grief  wrung  for  his  brother,  dead, 
From  loyal  Charles  La  Tour. 

Henceforth  the  Acadian  coast  to  him 
Was  like  a  desert  bare, 
The  sedge  that  lined  the  river's  brim 
Sang  out  his  grief  to  air, 

He  sought  the  spots  where  sad  pines  moan 
And  plaintive  hemlocks  wave, 
And  many  a  night  he  slept  alone 
Beside  Biencourt's  grave. 


82 


MADAME  LA  TOUR 

DEFENCE    OF   THE   FORT,   APRIL,    1645 

AGAINST  the   background   of  the   shadowy 
years 

Are  painted,  but  they  have  no  smiles  or  tears 
Or  heart-throbs,  like  the  living  ones  we  know, 
The  forms  of  most  great  men,  dead  long  ago. 

Some  spirits  have  there  been  in  history, 
Who  with  the  vanished  centuries  cannot  die, 
But  in  the  living  world  still  keep  their  place, 
So  strong  are  they,  so  charged  with  every  grace. 

This  noble  heroine  of  the  Acadian  land, 
A  woman  born  for  love  and  for  command, 
Enframed  with  brilliant  forests  and  blue  bays 
Seems  like  a  picture,  but  she  lives  with  us  always. 

Amidst  the  fogs  that  hide  the  rugged  face 

Of  the  New  Brunswick  shore  with  filmy  grace, 

83 


ACADIAN  BALLADS 

In  Fort  La  Tour,  stockaded,  bastioned,  bold, 
The  great  seignorial  captain's  chief  stronghold, 

She  long  withstood  the  plunderer  Charnisay, 
Her  husband's  enemy,  who  night  and  day, 
Camped  near  the  walls,  with  cat-like,  covetous  eyes 
Sought  the  small  force  that  held  it  to  surprise. 

Denys  has  told  us  that  with  breaking  heart 
She  stood,  compelled  to  bear  a  witness*  part 
As,  trapped  at  last  by  fiendish  treachery, 
Her  faithful  soldiers  were  led  out  to  die. 

Then  wrung  with  pain,  with  eyes  forever  blind 
To  sights  of  joy,  through  desolate  days  she  pined, 
Till  where  the  tides  fall  tremulous  on  the  shore 
She  slept,  the  heroic  wife  of  Charles  La  Tour. 

Whence  came  she  to  Acadia,  what  her  name, 
Live  her  French  forefathers  in  rolls  of  fame, 
Why  braved  she  wild,  tempestuous  ocean  floods, 
To  find  rude  shelter  in  these  homeless  woods  ? 

Our  questions  echo  'gainst  unanswering  skies, 
The  forests,  too,  guard  well  their  mysteries; 
But  Acadie's  traditions  would  be  poor 
Without  the  memory  of  Dame  La  Tour. 


MADAME  LA  TOUR 

Devoted  woman,  Greece  and  Rome  of  old 
Admiring  tales  of  their  great  daughters  told, 
And  shall  we  let  thy  name  be  lost  among 
The  multitudes  whose  lives  go  all  unsung  ? 

Ah  no,  beside  the  stern  New  Brunswick  strand 
And  through  the  length  of  this  delightful  land 
Thou  shalt  be  well  remembered;  even  the  sea 
Shall  sing  continuous  requiem  for  thee. 


THE  NAMING  OF  THE  GASPEREAU 

ABOUT    1673 

NOW  the  rainbow  tints  of  autumn 
Deck  the  ancient  hills 
And  the  dreamy  river  saunters 

Past  the  lazy  mills, 
Let  us  seek  the  murmuring  forest 

Where  the  pines  and  hemlocks  grow 
And  a  thousand  fringed  shadows 
Fall  upon  the  Gaspereau. 

When  the  first  Acadian  farmers, 

Sailing  up  the  Bay, 
Landed  with  their  goods  and  cattle 

On  the  fair  Grand  Pre, 
Wandering  through  the  ancient  forest, 

Claude,  Rene,  and  Theriot, 
In  a  vale  of  wondrous  beauty 

Found  the  River  Gaspereau; 

86 


THE  NAMING  OF  THE  GASPEREAU 

Found  the  simple-hearted  Micmac, 

In  his  birch  canoe, 
Paddling  down  his  Magapskegecbk 

To  the  Basin  blue, 
Little  dreaming  of  the  presence 

Of  the  Indian's  pale-faced  foe, 
Singing  unmelodious  boat-songs 

On  the  winding  Gaspereau. 

Midst  the  brushwood  and  the  rushes 

And  the  trembling  ferns, 
Where  the  River,  sighing,  singing, 

Speeds  with  many  turns 
Through  the  gateway  of  the  mountains 

Toward  the  meadows  far  below, 
On  they  crept  in  silent  wonder 

By  the  sun-kissed  Gaspereau. 

In  these  days  of  dream  and  legend, 

Life  all  fresh  and  new, 
Even  humble  Norman  peasants 

Into  poets  grew; 
From  their  roaming  in  the  forest 

Claude,  Rene,  and  Theriot 
Brought  their  comrades  magic  stories 

Of  the  vale  of  Gaspereau. 


ACADIAN  BALLADS 

By  the  crackling  hemlock  fire 

In  a  cabin  rude, 
With  their  store  of  cheese  and  brown-bread 

And  their  ale,  home-brewed, 
Gathered  then  the  Norman  peasants, 

And  at  last  Rene  said  low: 
"Let  us  name  the  new-found  river 

Gaspere-water,  Gaspereau!" 

Gaspere  was  the  kindliest  comrade 

In  their  little  band, 
None  so  buoyant,  none  so  eager 

Through  the  Acadian  land; 
But  ere  half  the  voyage  was  over, 

On  fierce  Fundy's  rolling  seas 
Suddenly  there  crept  beside  him 

Some  old  shadow  of  disease. 

There  was  mourning  in  the  vessel, 

Strong  men  sobbed  and  cried, 
When  one  evening  just  at  sunset, 

Gentle  Gaspere  died; 
There  was  wailing  in  the  vessel 

As,  with  trembling  voice  and  slow, 
Pere  Deschambault  read  the  death-prayers 

As  the  still  form  sank  below. 

88 


THE  NAMING  OF  THE  GASPEREAU 

Dreary  was  the  voyage  thereafter 

On  the  cruel  Bay, 
Till  they  reached  the  sheltered,  smiling 

Meadows  of  Grand  Pre, 
Then  their  accustomed  songs  at  evening 

Were  subdued  and  sad  and  low; — 
So  they  named  the  lovely  river, 

With  fond  memory,  Gaspereau! 

Many  a  summer,  when  the  plowing 

In  the  fields  was  done, 
And  the  busy  looms  were  growing 

Silent,  one  by  one, 
Lovers  in  the  mellow  moonlight, 

From  the  travelled  streets  below, 
Sought  the  path  across  the  meadows 

To  the  banks  of  Gaspereau. 

When  there  came  some  loss  or  sorrow 

To  the  little  band; 
When  the  dykes  broke,  or  the  crops  failed 

In  the  Acadian  land, 
Many  a  tired  wife  and  mother, 

In  the  silver  twilight-glow 
Sought  relief  from  dark  foreboding 

By  the  peaceful  Gaspereau. 


ACADIAN  BALLADS 

Vanished  are  the  Acadian  peasants, 

Sweet  Evangeline, 
Gabriel,  Benedict,  and  Basil, 

And  no  sadder  scene 
Ever  gave  itself  to  story, 

Than  that  scene  of  wreck  and  woe 
When  the  English  ships  weighed  anchor 

In  the  mouth  of  Gaspereau. 

Still  it  flows  among  the  meadows, 

Singing  as  of  yore 
To  the  ferns  and  trailing  mosses 

On  the  winding  shore; 
To  the  pines  that  dip  their  branches 

In  the  crystal  wave  below, 
And  the  crimson  leaves  of  autumn 

Falling  in  the  Gaspereau. 


90 


THE  GHOSTS  OF  THE  ACADIANS     y 

T  T  is  the  hour  of  sunset,  and  the  hills  of  Gaspereau 

•*•  Lie  half  in  purple  shadow  and  half  in  crimson 
glow; 

Day's  deafening  chorus  ended,  on  the  clear-echo- 
ing air 

The  college  bell  is  ringing  a  special  call  to  prayer. 


The  fitful,  faltering  music,  as  through  a  swaying 

door 
Sweeps   now   across   the    Basin   to   distant   Beau 

Sejour; 
Then,  weakening  to  a  chorus  of  laughter,  sobs  and 

sighs, 
Seems  like  a  ghostly  requiem  sung  by  dead  centuries. 

Below   the   embowered   village   extends   the  wide 
Grand  Pre, 

9* 


ACADIAN  BALLADS 

A  thousand  emerald  acres,  where  light  and  shadow 

play, 
And  there  the  gleaming  water,   and  the  masted 

ships  that  ride 
Near  Blomidon,  grim  guardsman  of  the  gateway 

of  the  tide; 

And  fisher-people  tying  belated  boats  to  shore, 

And  farmers  plodding  homeward,  all  weary  and 
footsore, 

And  children  calling  cattle  that  from  the  dykes 
have  strayed, 

And  great  hay-wagons  creeping  from  out  the  wil- 
lows' shade. 

But  soon  the  darkness  deepens  and  night's  cold 

dews  come  down, 
And  then  the  Acadian  farmers  roam  forth  through 

field  and  town. 
Again    above    the    ramparts    of   bastioned    Beau 

Sejour 
The  white  flag  of  the  Bourbons  salutes  the  Cobe- 

quid  shore, 

And  rude  French  fishing  vessels  drift  outward  to 
the  Bay, 

92 


THE  GHOSTS  OF  THE  ACADIANS 

And    peaceful    homes    encircle    the    meadows    of 

Grand  Pre. 

Above  the  rustic  cradle,  to  hush  her  baby's  cry, 
The  fond  Acadian  mother  sings  sweet  French  lul- 

laby, 

And  maidens  with  their  lovers  dance  on  the  village 

green, 
Amongst  them  stalwart  Gabriel,  and  his  Evange- 

line, 
While  from  the  open  church  door,  as  young  at 

heart  as  they, 
Nods  saintly  Pere  Felician,  and  bids  his  flock  be  gay. 

But  now  New  England  soldiers  are  camped  by 

Basil's  forge, 
And  o'er  the  town  is  waving  the  red  cross  of  St. 

George, 
And  British  swords  are  gleaming,  and  women  are 

in  flight, 
And  children's  cries  are  rending  the  silence  of  the 

night. 

At  last  fierce  flames  encircle  the  houses  of  Grand 

Pre, 
And  Winslow's  vessels  hurry  upon  the  tide  away, 

93 


ACADIAN  BALLADS 

While  lurid  shadows  linger  where  red  gleams  fell 

aslant 
The   fruitful   fields   of  Minas   and   the   dykes   of 

Habitant. 

O  pity  for  the  sorrow  that  shrouds  the  Minas  shore, 
The  bitter  desolation  of  ancient  Beau  Sejour, 
The  weeping  of  the  exiles  across  the  moaning  tide, 
The  Acadian  farmer  people,  that  in  strange  lands 
abide. 

From  Maine  to  California,  bewildered  groups,  they 
stand, 

With  eyes  turned  ever  eastward  to  the  Acadian 
land, 

Their  plaintive  songs  reechoed  by  strange,  un- 
feeling skies, 

Like  the  old  Mantuan  shepherd's  or  Hebrew 
psalmist's  cries. 

O  poor  Acadian  peasants,  ye  fell  on  troublous  times, 
When  lust  of  large  dominion  filled  all  the  world 

with  crimes, 
When  Holy  Church  gave  sanction  to  most  unholy 

strife 
And  the  Galilean's  gospel  was  not  the  law  of  life. 

94 


THE  GHOSTS  OF  THE  ACADIANS 

Now,  wrongs  like  those  ye  suffered,  thank  Heaven, 
have  ceased  to  be, 

Since  church  and  state  know  better  Christ's  law  of 
charity, 

Now  men  repose  in  safety  by  labour's  peaceful 
forge, 

'Neath  the  white  flag  of  the  Bourbons  and  the  red 
cross  of  St.  George; — 

Yet  earth  has  misconceptions  and  cruelties  to- 
day 

As  great  as  caused  your  downfall,  ye  peasants  of 
Grand  Pre, 

The  lust  of  power  is  rampant,  the  love  of  gold  is 

strong, 
Some  use  in  selfish  pleasure  what  others  gained  by 

wrong, 
The  young  too  soon  bear  burdens,  the  aged  toil  too 

late, 
Hearts  made  for  trust  and  pity  are  driven  to  fear 

and  hate. 

Slow  comes  the  reign  of  knowledge,  slow  dawns  the 

perfect  light; 

But  from  a  thousand  hill-tops  we  look  into  the  night 
And  see  earth's  wide  horizon  in  many  spots  aglow, 

95 


ACADIAN  BALLADS 

And  spite  of  present  darkness  and  present  pain  we 

know 
That  some  day  false  ambition  shall  turn  to  purpose 

strong, 
And  be  he  counted  conqueror  who  lives  to  conquer 

wrong. 


THE  PHANTOM  LIGHT  OF  THE  BAIE  DES 
CHALEURS 

the  laughter  of  pines  that  swing  and  sway 
Where  the  breeze  from  the  land  meets  the 
breeze  from  the  bay, 
'Tis  the  silvery  foam  of  the  silver  tide 
In  ripples  that  reach  to  the  forest  side; 
'Tis  the  fisherman's  boat,  in  a  track  of  sheen 
Plying  through  tangled  seaweed  green, 
O'er  the  Baie  des  Chaleurs. 

Who  has  not  heard  of  the  phantom  light 
That  over  the  moaning  waves,  at  night, 
Dances  and  drifts  in  endless  play, 
Close  to  the  shore,  then  far  away, 
Fierce  as  the  flame  in  sunset  skies, 
Cold  as  the  winter  light  that  lies 

On  the  Baie  des  Chaleurs  ? 

97 


ACADIAN  BALLADS 

They  tell  us  that  many  a  year  ago, 
From  lands  where  the  palm  and  the  olive  grow, 
Where  vines  with  their  purple  clusters  creep 
Over  the  hillsides  gray  and  steep, 
A  knight  in  his  doublet,  slashed  with  gold, 
Famed,  in  that  chivalrous  time  x>f  old, 
For  valorous  deeds  and  courage  rare, 
Sailed  with  a  princess  wondrous  fair 
To  the  Baie  des  Chaleurs. 


That  a  pirate  crew  from  some  isle  of  the  sea, 
A  murderous  band  as  e'er  could  be, 
With  a  shadowy  sail,  and  a  flag  of  night, 
That  flaunted  and  flew  in  heaven's  sight, 
Swept  in  the  wake  of  the  lovers  there, 
And  sank  the  ship  and  its  freight  so  fair 
In  the  Baie  des  Chaleurs. 

Strange  is  the  tale  that  the  fishermen  tell, — 
They  say  that  a  ball  of  fire  fell 
Straight  from  the  sky,  with  crash  and  roar, 
Lighting  the  bay  from  shore  to  shore; 
That  the  ship,  with  a  shudder  and  a  groan, 
Sank  through  the  waves  to  the  caverns  lone 
Of  the  Baie  des  Chaleurs. 


THE  PHANTOM  LIGHT 

That  was  the  last  of  the  pirate  crew; 
But  many  a  night  a  black  flag  flew 
From  the  mast  of  a  spectre  vessel,  sailed 
By  a  spectre  band  that  wept  and  wailed 
For  the  wreck  they  had  wrought  on  the  sea,  on 

the  land, 

For  the  innocent  blood  they  had  spilt  on  the  sand 
Of  the  Baie  des  Chaleurs. 

This  is  the  tale  of  the  phantom  light 
That  fills  the  manner's  heart,  at  night, 
With  dread  as  it  gleams  o'er  his  path  on  the  bay, 
Now  by  the  shore,  then  far  away, 
Fierce  as  the  flame  in  sunset  skies, 
Cold  as  the  winter  moon  that  lies 
On  the  Baie  des  Chaleurs. 


99 


o 


DE  SOTO'S  LAST  DREAM 

1543 
N  a  shadowy  plain  where  cypress  groves 


And  spreading  palm  trees  rise, 
And  the  antlered  deer,  swift-footed,  roves, 
The  brave  De  Soto  lies. 

They  have  made  him  a  bed,  where  high  overhead 

The  trailing  moss  entwines 
With  the  leaves  of  the  campion  flower  red, 

And  gleaming  ivy  vines. 

Over  his  fevered  forehead  creeps, 

From  the  cedar  branches  high, 
The  wind  that  sleeps  in  the  liquid  deeps 

Of  the  changeless  southern  sky, 

And  the  Mississippi's  turbid  tide, 

Broad  and  free,  flows  past, 
Like  the  current  wide,  on  which  men  glide 

To  another  ocean  vast. 

100 


DE  SOTO'S  LAST  DREAM 

He  dreams  of  the  days  in  sunny  Spain 
When  heart  and  hope  were  strong, 

And  he  hears  again  on  the  trackless  main 
The  sound  of  the  sailor's  song. 


Now,  with  the  fierce  Pizarro's  band, 

To  wield  the  sword  anew, 
He  takes  command  on  the  golden  sand 

Of  the  shores  of  proud  Peru, 

And  northward  now,  from  Tampa  Bay, 
With  glittering  spear  and  lance, 

With  pennons  gay,  and  horses'  neigh, 
His  cohorts  brave  advance. 

Again,  as  the  glittering  dawn  awakes 
From  its  dreams  of  purple  mist, 

By  the  stoled  priest  he  kneels  and  takes 
The  holy  eucharist, 

And  the  echoing  woods  and  boundless  skies 

Are  hushed  to  soft  content, 
As  the  strains  of  the  old  Te  Deum  rise 

On  a  new  continent. 

101 


ACADIAN  BALLADS 

Again  he  sees  in  the  thicket  damp, 
By  the  light  of  a  ghastly  moon, 

The  crocodile,  foul  from  his  native  swamp, 
Plunge  in  the  dark  lagoon. 

Again  o'er  the  wild  savannas  flee 
From  his  feet  the  frightened  deer, 

And  the  curlews  scream  from  tree  to  tree 
Discordant  notes  of  fear. 


From  deep  magnolia  woods  abloom, 

And  orange  thickets  white, 
Drunk  with  the  sensuous  perfume 

Shrill  mocking  birds  take  flight, 

And  calm  in  the  depths  of  her  silken  nest, 

Embowered  in  softest  green, 
With  scarlet  breast  and  golden  crest, 

The  wild  macaw  is  seen. 


In  the  waving  grass,  on  yucca  spires, 
Near  flowers  of  pallid  hue 

Are  born  the  erythrina's  fires 
And  the  starry  nixia's  blue; 

102 


DE  SOTO'S  LAST  DREAM 

The  rich  gordonia's  bosom  swells 
Where  the  brooklet  ripples  by, 

And  silvery-white  halesia  bells 
Reflect  the  cloudless  sky, 


And  graceful  southern  mosses,  brown, 

With  gleaming  ivies  twine, 
And  heavy  purple  blooms  weigh  down 

The  dark  wistaria  vine. 


Now  on  his  bold  Castilian  band 

The  native  warriors  press, 
From  their  haunts  in  the  trackless  prairie  land, 

And  the  unknown  wilderness, 

And  the  flame  he  has  kindled  gleams  again 

On  his  sword  of  trusty  steel, 
As  he  burns,  midst  the  yells  of  savage  men, 

Their  village  of  Mobile. 


Like  the  look  of  triumph  o'er  victories  won 

That  dying  conquerors  wore, 
Or  the  light  that  bursts  from  the  setting  sun 

On  some  cold,  craggy  shore, 

103 


ACADIAN  BALLADS 

The  fire  of  hope  lights  up  anew 
The  brave  adventurer's  brow, 

A  roseate  flash, — then  death's  dull  hue, 
And  his  dream  is  over  now. 

So,  on  the  plain  where  cypress  groves 
And  spreading  palm  trees  rise, 

And  the  antlered  deer,  swift-footed,  roves, 
The  brave  De  Soto  dies. 


104 


PORT  ROYAL 

ABOUT  this  ancient  earth-work  and  this  wall, 
Where  rude  spiked  gates  on  heavy  hinges 

hung, 

The  shouts  of  armies  many  a  time  have  rung, 
And  thunderous  cannon  sounded  loud  o'er  all. 

Here,  night  and  morn,  the  echoing  bugle  call 
Close  to  the  farthest  wooded  hill-tops  clung, 

Here  with  her  lilies  to  the  breezes  flung, 
France  held  Acadia  in  romantic  thrall. 

Here  Bourbon  nobles  carved  the  fleur  de  lis, 

And  waved  the  white  flag  of  the  Bourbon  kings; 

Here  Acadie's  first  convert,  Membertou, 
The  aged  Micmac  chieftain,  bent  the  knee 

To  Christ;  and  here  on  wide-expanded  wings 
The  hostile  fleets  of  British  sovereigns  flew. 


105 


GRAND-PRE       V 

A  RARE  enchantment  rests  upon  the  place 
Where  Gabriel  wooed  and  won  Evangeline; 
On  these  broad,  fertile  dyked-lands,  emerald-green, 
Lies  the  soft  spell  of  a  romantic  race. 

Where  winds  the  Gaspereau  with  serpent  grace 
Along  the  vale,  Acadian  homes  have  been, 

On  this  slight  mound  they  tell  us  once  was  seen 
A  cross-crowned  church;  here  ancient  willows 
trace 

A  favorite  street,  while  in  this  open  field 

Tradition  says  the  Acadians  placed  their  dead. 

Yonder  lies  Minas  Basin  in  the  sun, 

Gleaming  like  some  recumbent  warrior's  shield; 

Above,  a  white  mist-turban  round  his  head, 
Sheik  of  the  land  sits  hoary  Blomidon. 


106 


CHEBUCTO  BAY 

WHEN  England's  power  at  last  would  be 
complete 

On  all  the  tide-washed  shores  of  Acadie, 
Cornwallis  brought  his  goodly  company, 
Anchoring  in  this  blue  bay  his  noble  fleet. 

Here  grew  a  sturdy  city,  street  by  street, 

And  forts  were  reared  beside  the  surging  sea, 

Here  royal  Edward  dwelt,  grandsire  to  be 

Of  him  whose   empire  scarce  knows   bound  or 
mete. 

Here  Wentworth  and  his  Tory  compeers  came 
When  fierce  rebellion  rent  the  neighboring  land, 

Foes  to  the  foes  of  England  and  the  king; 
To  this  proud  citadel  of  ancient  fame, 

Decade  by  decade,  white-sailed  war-ships  manned 
By  soldier  seamen,  British  warriors  bring. 


107 


rOBED  AT  NRLF 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


3  2106  002 


